"The capital is untouchable," he said with a hint of impatience now in his voice. His hand was clenched around the wine goblet. Why was he so nervous? "The whole point of a trust," he said, in a tone implying he was speaking to the simple-minded, "is to prevent the beneficiaries from spending the capital frivolously."
"Did you say 'frivolously'?" Miranda's voice had a snarl in it now. "I hope you're not implying that you would be a better judge of how we should spend our money than we would be."
The sounds of distress from Sharmie increased in volume. Miranda turned to look at her. Poor thing. Her big blue eyes were brimming with tears. As much as she'd been married in name only for the past several years, she had truly loved her husband. Every meeting about his death brought on tears, which, of course, only made her eyes sparkle more beautifully. She looked like a forlorn fairy, one whom a prince would be delighted to rescue.
"Hush, now, Sharmie, it can't be that bad." Miranda pressed her step-mother's hand.
"You don't know, Miranda," Sharmie whispered. "I couldn't tell you."
"Don't know—" Miranda cut herself off. This couldn't be something they wanted to discuss in front of this hardhearted lawyer.
But, having gathered the courage to speak, Sharmie couldn't be stopped. She pressed the tissue to her eyes, straightened her back, and fixed her gaze on the lawyer. "I need more money," she whispered.
Miranda gasped. Sharmie didn't have an assertive bone in her body. What was she talking about?
Mr. Hascombe cleared his throat. "You know the estate was seriously encumbered by the extravagant spending you incurred to care for your husband?"
"Don't even think about chastising us for the care we gave him." Miranda withdrew her attention from Sharmie for a moment to address this new attack. "We would do it all over again."
Her father had spent six years dying slowly of Alzheimer's. For every minute of those six years, she and Sharmie had given him the best care they possibly could.
That money was gone now, and she didn't regret it. All they could do now was deal with the present. She took Sharmie's hand. "What do you need money for?"
Her step-mother's tormented gaze met hers. "I couldn't tell you," she repeated.
"Tell me what?" Miranda's heart started to thump painfully. She was only fifteen years younger than Sharmie and they'd always been as close as sisters. Hadn't they? What secret had Sharmie kept?
"I—I want to marry Pookie," she said, still whispering, as if she couldn't manage to actually speak out loud.
"Pookie?" Miranda felt like a parrot. "You mean the Pookie who lives in England?" A chasm was opening at her feet. An enormous black hole that would suck her in to its depths forevermore, if she couldn't get Sharmie to renounce her words.
"Of course, that Pookie!" Sharmie's tone was a little sharper. "How many Pookies could there be in the world?"
That was unanswerable, as Miranda was sure there couldn't be two men on the planet who would answer to the name.
"Why do you want to marry him all of a sudden?" Despite the panic gnawing at her, Miranda tried for a tone of reason.
"It's not sudden." Sharmie sniffed. "You know we've been friends for years. Of course, I couldn't do anything while your father was alive. Now that he's—he's—" She stopped, overcome. When she raised her head from her tissue, she said simply, "I need to move on with my life."
Move on with her life. The words echoed in Miranda's head. Her greatest fear — losing the only family she had — loomed in front of her. Her father had been an only child. Her mother, long gone, had been an only child. And Miranda herself had been an only child, until her father married Sharmie. A new horror raised its ugly head.
"The twins?" Now she was the one whispering. "Would you move to England and take the twins?"
"Of course the twins would go with me." Sharmie looked puzzled. "I'm their mother."
"Right." Miranda swallowed hard and tried to compose herself. Sharmie and the twins had each other, and now, apparently, Pookie was being added to the family unit. Only she, Miranda, would be left on the outside.
Her first wild thought – that she would move to England with them – had to be abandoned immediately. She had no way to get legal permission to live and work in England. Sharmie would be legal by marrying Pookie, an Englishman, and of course the twins, who were only six years old, would have the same legal status as their mother.
Only Miranda would be left out of the family circle. She wasn't legally related to any of them any more.
Nor to anyone else.
Mr. Hascombe cleared his throat. "We're getting off the subject here," he announced. "Your potential marriage doesn't affect the terms of your late husband's will."
Sharmie frowned delicately. "But I need money for a wedding."
"Nonsense." Hascombe waved his fingers for the check. "There can be no question of advancing money from the trusts for a—a wedding." He spat out the word as if it tasted foul. "Nor for any other reason." He turned his hard glare on Miranda.
"We'll just see about that," Miranda said, trying to speak bravely. "Wills can be challenged."
"Possibly." Hascombe pressed his napkin to his mouth and put it aside, as if signaling the meeting was finally over. "But the will itself is not your biggest problem."
Miranda's heart clattered with sudden fear. Perhaps her father hadn't left any money at all? His care had been expensive. Sharmie had nursed him at home, bringing in attendants, first for a day-time shift so she could care for the twins, later, for more extensive amounts of time as he became totally helpless. Miranda had been privy to replays of the arguments Sharmie had had with Hascombe over the cost.
"My biggest problem?" She clutched Sharmie's hand.
"You remain under the financial control of your trustee until you reach the age of thirty-five."
"My trustee?"
"The Duke of Devonwood, one of the most powerful nobles in England. He controls your finances. Completely."
Chapter 2
Devon Percy Arlington, the ninth Duke of Devonwood knew he had his shot. His pony knew it too, and it only took a slight nudge and then they were cantering toward the open wedge in the field of polo players. Devonwood twisted over, swung his mallet, and the ball flew between the goal posts. Triumph roared through him, but was quickly muted. Playing polo with the pick up team comprised entirely of dukes of England, or their heir apparents, was not the same as playing in the Queen's Cup at Windsor Great Park.
But it was fun.
"Nice shot." Stirling raised his polo stick in salute.
"The score is tied now," Renfryn called out. "Time for dinner."
Devonwood debated begging off dinner. He enjoyed the guys, and Renfryn was his neighbor and oldest friend, but he was getting uneasy over the way Ren looked at his sister, Sarah. There could be no match between Sarah and Ren, and Devonwood had no desire to play the bad guy in a tale of star-crossed lovers.
But he had to wait for the ponies to be rubbed down, both his and the string he'd lent to Ren. Renfryn could no longer afford to maintain his own stables, but he had extensive landholdings with plenty of room for a game of pick-up polo. So they maintained a polite fiction that Ren would provide the field, and Devonwood the ponies.
In the end, it was easier to swarm into the house with the other guys and accept a whiskey from the ancient butler. As always, the men, unburdened by women during these events, went directly into the library. The room still looked almost as it had twenty-five years ago, when the family still had enough money to maintain appearances. Now, even that fig leaf was gone. Bare spots on the faded walls revealed where paintings had hung. The Oriental carpets had been rolled up and carted off to auction houses.
Devonwood barely noticed the losses. He always enjoyed being with his friends, even though the ribbing started immediately.
"Coventry," someone said, "is it true that Lola Lamont is renting your property to film a story about Lady Godiva?"
The Marquess of Coventry grimace
d. "The house, the grounds, and even the damn village."
"You trying to get a part in the film?" Devonwood eyed his friend's new buzz cut. "You look like a male version of Lady Godiva after she gets shorn."
"You know I always wore my hair too long." Coventry shuddered. "Lola admired it, and the next day I cut it off." He rubbed the blond bristles that were all he had left of a shoulder-length hairstyle that used to be greatly beloved by the ladies.
Devonwood laughed. "Leave home. You can hide out with me."
"I tried to escape, but apparently someone involved with the show wants to rub shoulders with "English nobility" — Coventry made air quotes around the words — "and they put a clause in the contract that we all have to be in residence during filming."
A chorus of groans greeted his words. "Watch out for whoever's looking for a title," Renfryn said. "You're the heir apparent."
"Lola terrifies me," Coventry admitted. "She didn't get where she is without a spine of steel. Unfortunately, it shows too often."
"Are you kidding?" Waverly's blue eyes sparkled with the mischief for which he was known. "Who could see beyond those curves to look for a spine? Plus all her money must have your relatives salivating."
Coventry shrugged. "She's hot, all right. But—"
"You're doomed." Waverly tossed back his whiskey. "I'll put money on it. You'll be the first to fall into parson's mousetrap."
"Hear, hear." Several men raised their glasses. "What's the bet?"
"A thousand pounds says Coventry is the first damn fool in this room to marry." The Duke of Weston thumped his tumbler on a nearby table. "Who's in?" The light glinted on his limited edition Montblanc watch. Flashy, just like the man himself.
"I think Beaucastle will be first," Stirling argued. "Those harpies in his maternal line aren't going to let him stall any longer now that he's celebrated his fortieth."
"Not me," Beaucastle protested. "Marriage is too much like playing cards. You start out giving a heart and a diamond and end up wishing for a club and a spade."
"No, no." Stirling laughed. "We like playing cards."
"You're too effing cynical, Beaucastle," Weston said. "We all need heirs."
"Not Devonwood," Ren pointed out. "He already has an heir and a spare."
"No one's going to bet that Devonwood would fall first," Weston said. "He'll never marry at all. He's a smart guy, you know."
Amidst the general laughter, Devonwood downed his whiskey, enjoying the burn. He didn't mind the jibes at his expense because the guys were right. He had no need to marry, nor any intention of doing so. But he didn't enjoy the high wager. He could afford it. Weston could afford it. But some of the men in the room would be hard put to part with a thousand pounds merely for the fun of a harmless bet.
"I'll bet on Coventry," he finally said. "If Lola has a brain to go with that face and that body, then Coventry is doomed. You can be second in line, Beaucastle." He grinned at his tall, thin friend. "Time you settled down."
"Second in line? What the hell does that mean?" Beaucastle asked.
"We're making a list," Devonwood answered. "Betting for money isn't a challenge. Using our brains is." He glanced around the group. "Whoever comes closest to guessing the correct order in which we succumb to matrimony wins the pot."
"Complicated," Stirling interjected. "But that's you, Devonwood. You've probably already got the odds figured for any possible list."
"Yeah, he'll probably win. But who cares?" Weston reached for his wallet. "We each need to throw a thousand into the pot."
"The glory comes from winning," Devonwood pointed out. "Not from hitting each other up for cash. A hundred pounds is plenty." He reached for his own wallet. "Damnit, I've only got a fifty." He tossed it onto the table. "Hell, that's enough. Who's in?"
"What the hell." Renfryn pulled out a fifty pound note. "Devonwood, you're last on my list. Plenty of money, and two heirs in place. No reason to be looking out for a wife."
"Can't argue with that," Beaucastle said. "Must be nice to be in such a sweet spot, Dev."
Devonwood laughed. "So we start with Coventry, and end with me. Go get your betting book, Ren and let's make our lists."
Chapter 3
One week later, Miranda still seethed as she slammed the brakes to halt the mini-Cooper she'd rented. The car almost fishtailed on the broad curve of pebbled driveway in front of the Devonwood castle.
"Perhaps this isn't the best idea," Sharmie said, her blue eyes agog at the magnificence spread before them. The enormous palace gleamed in late afternoon sunlight, its faceted windows reflecting diamonds of light into their eyes. Miranda turned to look at the smooth sweep of emerald green lawn stretching as far as her eye could see. For some reason, the Devonwoods hadn't planted many trees close to the house, as if they expected an enemy horde any minute, and they didn't want to provide cover. She snorted at her fancy.
Well, the Duke of Devonwood had an enemy at his gates today.
"The duke did refuse to see you," Sharmie added.
"The old fart didn't know who he was dealing with." Miranda unclipped her seatbelt and grabbed her purse and laptop. "Hascombe said our trustee was one of Dad's Oxford classmates. I'm sure he's got one foot in the grave and the other propped on a footstool to nurse his—his gout." Didn't the aged English nobility always suffer from gout? She shoved open the car door. "He won't have the energy to fight me. I intend to make his life so miserable that he'll give in and let us have the money we need."
"I wish you'd reconsider." Sharmie folded her hands over her purse, as if she had no intention of exiting the car. "It's not like you to be so—hostile."
"Do you want to have that fancy wedding you've been planning?" Miranda had to lean down to speak into the car. "You deserve that wedding and I intend to see that you get it. No meddling duke is going to stop me. You can wait here if you like."
She straightened up as a man in a dark suit paced slowly down the broad, shallow steps that led from the enormous double doors.
"Good afternoon, miss." He didn't speak with the clipped accents of the upper class, though he definitely had a British accent. The butler, no doubt.
"Good afternoon," Miranda answered stiffly. She'd decided she'd have to brazen this part out. The duke had refused her phone calls, an overnight letter, and a plea to his business manager, whom she'd tracked down with a great deal of effort. "I have an appointment with the Duke of Devonwood."
Without moving any of his features, the butler managed to look down his nose at her. "I am not aware that his grace has any personal appointments this afternoon."
"He must have forgotten to mention it. Please tell him his ward—" The word choked her, but it might impress the butler—"his ward, Miranda Foxglove is here to see him." Technically, she didn't think she was his ward – he simply held all control of her finances – but she needed to convince the butler to bring in a message.
"Very good, miss." Inclining his head slightly, the butler turned and retreated up the steps. "Please come with me."
Scurrying after him, Miranda heard the car door close. Sharmie had decided to join the fray, but her delicate face was anxious. Miranda's ire increased. They shouldn't have to be here begging. As a legal widow, and a grown adult, Sharmie was entitled to at least half of her husband's estate, free and clear.
Of course, from what Hascombe had said, she had been granted half of the estate. But it was tied up in a trust that effectively made it untouchable. Miranda knew that Alzheimer's must have had her father in its grip when he signed the will. He had loved Sharmie and never would have placed her in such a difficult situation intentionally.
Now all she had to do was persuade this duke of that fact.
Her heels clacked sharply on the stone steps, expressing her anger as if she was shooting bullets out of her feet. Which she wished she could do. How dare this duke refuse to give them their own money?
"Don't be nervous, Sharmie," she said in a low voice. "I'll do all the talking." Her step-moth
er hated confrontation, but was determined to be as supportive as possible. Despite her fragile air, highlighted by her pale blonde curls and big blue eyes, Sharmie was a protective lioness with a lot more steel in her spine than people gave her credit for. She wouldn't say much, but she'd gather her courage and follow anyone she loved into the lion's den.
The butler closed the tall mahogany doors behind them. "Please wait here." He moved to the opposite side of the marble-floored foyer, rudely leaving them standing there. Miranda knew he didn't believe a word she'd said about having an appointment.
"This duke must be incredibly rich," Sharmie whispered, turning and twisting to take in the luxuriously appointed hall. A chandelier dripped sparkling crystals overhead, while antique credenzas gleamed with satin finishes and expensive bibelots. This duke was not a member of the genteel, but poor, nobility. Perhaps no dukes were.
"Yes, he's obviously wealthy." Miranda gripped her laptop. "Our money couldn't possibly amount to anything at all given the scope of what he's got."
"Oh, dear." Sharmie made a small moue of distress. "I'm sure he doesn't intend to rob us."
"The end result is the same."
The butler reappeared with a liveried man in tow. "Baker will escort you ladies to the business quarters of the estate."
Miranda's heart leapt. Her gamble had paid off! They were going to meet with the duke. A slight sense of defeat tainted her pleasure, though, as they exited the palace. The symbolism of being shown to a side door could not be ignored.
A gleaming white golf cart stood now at the foot of the front steps. Baker indicated the cart with one spread hand, leaving them to choose their seats. Miranda frowned at Sharmie. Was this a trick? Surely the duke lived and worked in the main house. He wasn't some poor relation.
"The business quarters are a short distance away," Baker said, as if he'd interpreted her frown. Business quarters? Did this duke actually work?
Book Boyfriends Cafe Summer Lovin' Anthology 2015 Page 113